


Just A Farmer's Son

by Escrimier



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: A Gascon and his sword, Alternate Universe - Canon, Before Season 1 episode 1, Coming of Age, Destiny, Fate & Destiny, Father-Son Relationship, Gen, Hero in the making, Idea came out of nowhere, One Shot, POV Change, Pre-Series, Promises, Short Story, Swords, Young d'Artagnan, d'Artagnan Angst, sort of canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-24
Updated: 2016-08-24
Packaged: 2018-08-10 18:13:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,616
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7855852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Escrimier/pseuds/Escrimier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alexandre d'Artagnan always knew his son had a destiny, one that very well may land outside Gascony. He just wanted his son to realize that too, and to make the decision that was best for him. He had a sword made for his boy when he was eight: a token for the man the boy would become. But neither were sure what that destiny was, and where that blade would land him, until a fateful rain soaked night at an inn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just A Farmer's Son

**Author's Note:**

> Pre-Series, one-shot look at d'Artagnan and his Father. And because I'm a fencer who knows the type of fencing the boys do and loves beautiful rapiers as much as they do, couldn't resist the idea young d'Artagnan's blade was just a good weapon to him. 
> 
> Idea rather came to me out of the blue. Apologies if it's rusty.

  ** _1619_**

**_Gascony, France_ **

**_Farm of Alexandre D’artagnan_ **

**_Morning…_ **

“Come here, my son.”

His only son, now in his eighth year, is obedient to a point, as usual. He runs from their stables, from his routine of greeting, feeding, and grooming his favorite horse, Saben. He is a prime picture of Gascon youth—hay stuck his hair, dirt on his cheek, his breeches and linen shirt stained no matter how many times his father scrubs and treats it with lye. But his eyes are bright with mischief and curiosity, as he peers up expectantly at his towering father.

“Charles, how old are you now?” Asking as a matter of course, just to see how his boy would respond—he is a quick study, this little child is, intelligent but crafty, with only his chores and lessons to constrain his unbridled knack for trouble.

“Why, _père_ ! I am eight!” He puffs out his chest in self-importance.

His father smiles, “That you are. Not quite the little man of house anymore.”

“No, _monsieur_!”

“Yet…sometimes you still act like it, do you not?” He adds with a touch of fatherly scorn. Charles D’artagnan is instantly chagrined, dropping his head, “ _Oui_ , _monsieur_.” He replies softly.

“But you know why you are in the wrong when you do, yes?”

Charles takes another hopeful peek upwards, “ _Peré_?”

Alexandre D’artagnan laughs, “Never mind, never mind. I can tell whenever I take the switch to you, you know you were wrong. Might not stop you for long, I grant that.” He adds with a faraway look of wistful pride. Charles beams and leaps at him to hug him around the middle. It is then that he notices his father is keeping something behind him back. He adjusts himself to see under his father’s arms. It is something long, and tapering…something wrapping in a leather-bound scabbard…something…

His eyes bulge, “ _Peré_?!” Then he’s dancing, hopping up and down with glee, diving forward to grab at it. His father keeps him at bay, laughing himself, as he produces the prize.

The pommel is gilded silver, the hand guard a complex sweeping encirclement; a trinity of silver tendrils coming together over the hilt. Its scabbard is expensive, elegantly made black leather, the royal fleur de lys engraved about its middle as a capricious omen. He kneels before his son to be on his level and presents the blade lengthwise, across his forearms. Charles lightly traces the leather under hand, intertwining fingers in the hand guard, caressing the pommel. He steps back with a gasp as his father draws the blade, steel on scabbard _shringing_!, sending shivers of thrill down the child’s spine. Alexandre presents the three and a half feet of solid tempered steel in the same abstentious manner, locking on to the look of supreme joy and awe on his boy’s face so he’d never forget it.

“…mine?” His tiny voice is whisper-soft and high-pitched.

“ _Oui,_ Charles. Yours. One day. I had it made especially for you. When the time comes, you will be as any other _le gentilhomme_ of France. You will carry a blade and know how to use it, with honor, dignity, and duty.” He sees the strain of comprehension tightening, instantly lightening the load with, “You are my future, Charles. Now do you see why we must do your lessons every day? Why I push you?”

 “ _Oui, mon Peré_ .” The agreement is quick and breathy, eyes just for the glorious steel before him.

“Do I have your word, as a gentleman, that you will practice every day, without cajoling, without complaint?” Alexandre asks with completely adult seriousness, giving him the eye.

Charles throws his shoulders back, head held high, “ _Oui_ , _monsieur_.”

“Put your hand on the blade, swear it.”

He does so with a maturity and reverence that does his father’s heart good.

“I swear, _mon peré._ I swear.

* * *

 

**_Ten Years Later_ **

**_Late August of 1629…_ **

“Alexandre, he is _incorrigible_!”

“Now, Geneviève…”

“No! Do not ‘now, Geneviève’ me, Alexandre D’artagnan!” He’s had a bread roller brandished at him by their she-devil of a housekeeper enough to know the intent to bite was there, couched by a rather ferocious bark, but without any real threat. She was prim and matronly, her thick white hair spun in a tight bun, quite a beauty in her day. Her flashing blue eyes showed little age, maintaining all the spark and fire of her once-prominent position as wife to the largest farm owner in all of Gascony. His death, a wealth of debt, drought, and hefty taxes laid the family and their land to waste, prompting the D’artagnan family to take her in as a new feminine presence after theirs passed away. She’d taken to that duty like a mother hen over her brood.

“He’s a good boy, just…headstrong, willful—“

“—impetuous, and restless, yes, yes! So you have said for the last ten years!” She whapped the instrument on the table. “It’s simply impossible, Alexandre. I have tried to instill the more decorous affects of life on him, I truly have. But not all the switching, whipping, or ordering in the world could change the situation: _Your son is an incorrigible waste of time_!”

“That is quite enough!” He barked, rather loath to counter the attack when he knew she was at least partially right, yet feeling a duty to his son to do so.

“No, it is _not_ enough!” She threw back at him, shaking the utensil out in front of her like the weapon. “And I’ll tell you something else! You, _Monsieur_ , are to blame: you’ve been filling his head with silly notions of grandeur since he was babe! A master swordsman, the best in France, standing over his parcel like a great lord! HA. That,” she extended the roller between them with a violent thrust, “Is your doing, monsieur, and _his_ undoing.”

“They are not silly notions of grandeur, madam. We are not rich nor are we especially poor: we have land! A name! And I have a son to carry that legacy on long after I am dead. If that’s ridiculous to you, I pity you.”

He had every intention to turn on his heel and leave her, if not for the fact their choice topic of conversation suddenly tore a path through the fields and then onwards, home free, running like the Devil himself was on his heels. Banging at his side, was the old beaten rapier he’d worked all of last summer to buy, hand rendering its scabbard himself. He couldn’t have the sword his father gave him ten years earlier…because his father gravely pronounced on every birthday since that he hadn’t deserved it yet. So it sat locked away in his father’s armoire, coming out only for inspection and polish, the steel as fine and ready as the day It was tempered.  

Charles d'Artagnan would have a blade at his hip regardless of his father’s wishes—he’d trained, worked, slaved to learn the _voie du fer,_ the ways of the blade. No one, most assuredly the man who first promised him such, could keep him from his destiny.

…He just…wasn’t entirely sure how to get to the point where fate’s hand would grasp him, however…So he had days like today, running for his life, coming home to find his father defending him again to their taskmaster of a housekeeper…

Alexandre d'Artagnan sighed as his eighteen-year-old skidded into the kitchen, drifting around the corners of door frame and furniture with a dancer’s grace.

 “I don’t suppose I want to know,” He began, “but then I should, shouldn’t I?”

His son stooped to gulp air, hands splayed on his knees, “I swear to you…it wasn’t my fault this time…”

“Ha! Is it ever?” snapped Geneviève, kneading her dough with suspicious ferocity.

“I wasn’t talking to you, Madame.”

 The snappy remark earned him a well-deserved huff and googly-eyed glare. His father was kinder…or maybe just more resigned to the occurrence, and simply clasped him on the shoulder to bid him to straighten. Now came the prerequisite quilt and chagrin. He straightened, but wouldn’t meet the all-encompassing look his father gave him.

“Charles…who was it this time?”

Knowing better than to lie, certainly seeing no reason to, he replied, “The Bestrand twins.”

Alexandre flinched under a grimace, “Oh.”

The Bestrands owned a significant portion of the neighboring lands, and had had more success than the d’Artagnan’s with their farm’s output over the past few seasons. There were rumors, probably true rumors in Alexandre’s opinion, the Bestrands were the notorious-if- yet-unidentified band of cutthroats recently frequenting the backroads to Paris, bushwhacking unsuspecting carriages and otherwise giving the rural outstretches a bad reputation for hiding thieves and outlaws to the Crown. The father was a merciless man whose gobbling up of forfeit land deeds boggled many minds in the area—surely it wasn’t all legal, but with the friends and connections he had, it might as well be. The youngest twins of the clan were Pierre and Maurice: hot tempered, undisciplined, and fancied themselves with the sword.

“Are you mad!” Geneviève rushed around her table to confront the boy. “Of all the people to pick a fight with---!”

“But that’s just it, Father, I swear!” His beseeching sounded sincere. “I didn’t. I was walking away. You’re always telling me it’s just as important to know when to fight as it is to not.” Alexandre bit back a smile at hearing his son quote him; the boy did listen, “They came after me.”

“So it was self-defense?”

d'Artagnan nodded vehemently, “Absolutely. I wasn’t about to let them stab me in the back!”

Charles sank to the chair nearest him, patting his ever thinning head of hair, “That is a serious charge, son.”

“Cowardice is serious. But it’s true. The twins are cowards, and I told them as much.”

“Ah ha! Do you see!” Geneviève shook her fist at his father. “Not his fault, indeed!”

“I don’t pretend to like the Bestrands, certainly not the twins. They are unruly and their father makes no attempt to restrain them. This should humble them, I would hope…” Alexandre looked to his son, “Are they alive?”

d'Artagnan stiffened at the implication, “I fought for honor, of course they are.”

“All right, all right. Forgive me for asking…” He patted his son’s hand. “Just the last couple of time this happened, you put the men in bed for months. I can’t afford any more physicians’ fees in exchange for you not going to prison for illegal dueling…”

“The last times I went eyes wide open into the fight. This time I did as you told me to do—I walked away.” d'Artagnan threw up his hands, “That suddenly doesn’t matter, I am still blamed…!”

“No, no, I don’t blame you. Not if it’s as you say it was. What prompted all this?”

d'Artagnan peeled the sweaty linen of his shirt from his skin, and ruffled his hair vigorously before replying, “They…made comments I thought unnecessary and defamatory.”

Eyebrows rose on both father and housekeeper. “Of what kind?” Alexandre pressed.

Turning a little red in the face, the young man busied himself with getting something to drink, the five-mile gallop to get free of the melee as parching as the rainless days behind them.

“Charles, of what kind?” His father wouldn’t relent.

“Please, father, I—I rather forget it? I won fairly, satisfied honor, and broke their blades so they wouldn’t be terrorizing anyone else for the time being.”

“But I don’t want to forget it.” Alexandre rose, seeing now what Geneviève saw: unruly stubbornness bordering on insolence and insubordination. “Cowards though they may be, you still fought two members of a very well connected family, for reasons I believe I need to know. No doubt, they will make something out of this, and when they do, I need to stand up before them and the constabulary and be able to say you were in the right while they were in the wrong—but I can’t do that if I don’t have the proof to back it up. Now, why did you fight them?”

d'Artagnan slammed his cup down, blinking twice in curt obtuseness, “No. I refuse to repeat it.”

His father stared right back at the defiance. “I defended you all the other times—to Guinevere, when she calls you an incorrigible waste. When you blatantly refuse to help yourself, I’m inclined to believe her, and that! Hurts my pride and my heart, to be made a liar!”

His son turned on him, the very image of his mother, tall, fair, fierce, vibrantly emotional and so very on the cusp of his own, to coldly announce, “Then stop defending me. I am my own man. My affairs my own, my battles my own...and I’m increasingly believing my fate is my own as well. You ** _are_** a liar—you swore I would be something, Father, _le gentilhomme,_ remember? Study hard and well, and reap the rewards in the end. Well, here I am—but instead you tie me down here, to the ends of France and her cow pastures and the—the dry earth you cling to as your legacy! I want that fate you promised! That great destiny! I want to be who I know I can be—and if fighting the likes of the Bestrands gives me that fulfillment, I don’t think there’s a damn thing you can do to stop me.”

Charles d'Artagnan shoved past his father, hollowing out the older man with his deft tongue and his strong stance of right and wrong, the very view instilled in to him by the man staring with dumbstruck longing after him.

Geneviève stomped to the threshold, a great many words and thoughts burbling to the surface about the boy she’d better keep to herself. “Dear Merciful God, he wants to be a hero.”

She too turned on the undercut elder d'Artagnan, fuming in her righteousness, “What did I tell you?! Filling his head with nonsense…telling him he has a great destiny to fulfill, now he fancies himself some tragic hero bound on a quest of glory!”

Her sardonic laughter shook Alexandre from his reverie. He never imagined this day would come…at least so soon. It was true…in the sense that he wanted better for Charles. If ‘better’ was a fairy tale, then give him a story to remember. His son had just given him the shove he needed to accept it, now he had to deliver the pull to seal it. He shuddered an uneasy breath, waving belatedly at Geneviève’s blustering. “No…no, Gene, nothing so dramatic.”

She stared at him, sturdy fingers pulling at dough like plucking harp strings, “Oh really? You did hear what he said to you, you did catch that insolence? I’m not making it up or hearing things this time, as you so adamantly insist. Plain as day to me!”

“If it’s so plain…why can’t you see it as I see it.” He smiled sadly. “It’s time.”

Her nimble fingers faltered. “Nonsense!”

“Yes.”

“No! The day he puts his family in danger by fighting someone so dangerous as the Bestrand twins, you believe---!”

“I believe,” he countered as he made a slow retreat to the door, “he should have the chance to see if the fate I promised is worth it to him. Or else he’ll continue to be the hero this land doesn’t need but deserves and he probably will get himself killed, or thrown in jail, or any number of downfalls I’d rather die first than see. He’s too much my idealism with all the skill I never had to back it up. Gene…he has to leave us.”

She shook her silver head ruefully, shrugging, “Far be it from me to stop you, then—you’re both fools…”

“Maybe…maybe…but many deemed foolish have changed history. Perhaps it is his turn.”

* * *

 

The Bestrands made their move at dusk. The twins, their Father, and the older brothers crowded the d'Artagnan courtyard, making escape impossible and tainting their visit with darkly ominous foreboding. Paul Bestrand, the patriarch, was a daunting man, meaty in the jowls and gut, and robustly barrel chested. His nose was crooked from being broken one too many times, and his eyes sunken black beads. The weapons harness he wore over his front was impressive, and not just for show—he was quite adept at pistol and sword, one of the reasons many believed he was the similarly mammoth leader of the bandit gang terrorizing the hillsides. His sons were equally well armed, except the twins, whose arms were in slings, their scowling faces covered in scabby abrasions. They sat round-shouldered and sullen in their saddles in the shadow of their father.

Though not on speaking terms, d'Artagnan and his Father joined each other in defense of their home. From within, Geneviève hefted a loaded musket rifle just in case, eyeing the gathering from between the slates in the front door.

Alexandre wasted no time, “State your business, Bestrand.”

“I’ve come to collect, Alexandre.”

“Collect what? You pound of flesh? Or just an apology. My son is willing to do the latter, but if it’s the former, you can turn around right now, be on your way.”

Bestrand’s horse lightly pawed the ground, a precursor to aggression, “Well, that depends on your boy there; if he’s man enough to face the charges I plan on bringing against him.”

d'Artagnan took a big step forward, teeth clenched and jaw set. His father held him back, “What do you want? Otherwise I will lodge counter charges against your boys for inciting violence. …Your family already has quite the reputation. Highly placed friends or not…it will catch up with you.”

“Now who’s threatening whom, Alexandre?”

“Your sons were the culprits today, Monsieur Bestrand.” d'Artagnan spoke up, planting himself before his father, “So whatever you have to say, do so and leave.”

Paul Bestrand eyed the young man, seeing in him a fire previously missed. Used to gauging the acumen of the men he battled, he recognized the tugging urge of ambition when he saw it. “Your eastern most fields, Alexandre. They haven’t been doing very well, have they?”

They were shocked, exchanging grim looks of the same. Extortion, blackmail…they should have known. It was Paul Bestrand’s forte.

“I’ll offer you top price for it…in exchange, your son’s freedom.” Bestrand smiled magnanimously, “I have to admit, I’m rather in your debt, young d’Artagnan, for shutting these two up so handedly,” referring to the twins.

“So in turn, you take my father’s richest lands for my silence as well?”

“It’s either that, or I run you off all together.” He curled his lips in a less friendly sneer, “And make good on my boys otherwise…weak…threats this afternoon?”

That hit a raw nerve in the boy, and it was all he could do to not to tackle the tub of lard and gristle off his horse. Alexandre knew then why his boy fought but wouldn’t say why: they’d insulted their familial worth, not only as farmers, but as men. He stepped up with an equal twitch of nose and lips, embolden by the act of selfishness he’d falsely taken as willful obstinateness from his son. “I hardly think that’s a fair trade. Get off my land, you cutthroat.”

This time d’Artagnan fearlessly drew his weapon, and thrusted it in the direction of Bestrand’s throat, its point in line unmistakable in meaning.

Bestrand dipped his chin to his chest as he brusquely laughed off the not so empty gesture, his posse shifting as they prepared to back up their father, “I run you off...throw both of you to the constabulary, and make it my mission to send you to the Bastille, as paupers. As I said, I leave this to your son’s sense of honor, mercenary as it is…”

Another dig.

Just as the confrontation was about to blow up, the front door to the farmhouse busted open and Geneviève took aim. She blew Bestrand’s hat clean off his head, startling the group and their mounts, high pitching whinnying and cries of alarm intermingling with a huge grunting impact as Paul Bestrand fell on his backside. His foot still caught in the stirrup, he screamed for his sons to help him as his stallion took off in a frothy panic. Still wheeling about their own mounts, they were in no position to do so, and the mayhem left the courtyard amidst a storm of dust and bellows.

The homesteaders dumfounded expressions at the quick turn of events…and their matronly friend’s skill with a musket, had Father and son turning in unison to stare. She stared back, hefting the gun over her shoulder, “What? He was a pompous bag of wind. The Bestrands have stolen a lot of good people’s hard earned wealth and wellbeing.” She shifted under the attention, looking off as he emotions suddenly got the better of her, using her apron as a handkerchief. “My husband included. I’ll not have you lose yours, Alexandre.” Hiding under a wreath of fiery determination, she returned to her kitchen and promptly began noisily banging about the way to making coffee.

Sighing through a disbelieving laugh, d’Artagnan sheathed his old blade, shaking his shaggy strands as his father, too, tried not to laugh at their momentary good fortune. “It’s not going to last.”

“No, but, take advantage of it while we can?”

Alexandre looked of his boy, taking in the glowing sheen of his cheeks from the excitement ad promise of action, the adrenaline rejuvenating him. He knew Charles to be most like his mother: a fighter; she fought until the very end. Charles had that ember in his heart as well.

His gaze was entirely fond and forgiving. “I’m sorry…Charles. I didn’t understand before. They went after me this afternoon, didn’t they?”

d’Artagnan cleared his throat, new anxiety building in his chest and outwardly furrowing his brow, “And me. My worth, my dreams…they said I would never be more than a dirt I was born from.”

“And you almost walked away?”

“Almost. If…I thought my life wasn’t in danger should I not defend myself, I would have.”

Alexandre gripped d’Artagnan’s neck in a fatherly hold, “My son…”

“No, no!” Shaking off the hold, clenching fists anew in the fight against his own emotions, “Father…I—I should have walked away. Forget myself, think of you, what Bestrand would do to you. But they got under my skin—played on those fears. Made me feel…” he skewed his face in an effort to say the next terrible word, “ ** _Disgusted_** with myself…with you…for being who we are: farmers. I hated you for it in that moment. And myself, for dishonoring you. How could I despise my father because he worked the land, got his hands dirty the honorable way?”

He swallowed thickly, his posture breaking to pull his father into a heavy embrace, all but hanging on him. His voice grew small, breathless under the strain of admission, “That’s why I said what I did today—I was afraid: for you, me, our future, my future…”

Alexandre’s eyes crinkled in excruciating pride and love for this boy suddenly very much a man. At last. He was ready. “That’s all I ever wanted you to feel, and have the courage to admit.” He clapped strong sinewy shoulder blades, “All men are afraid, Charles, but the great ones embrace it, and rise above it. Those great ones become history. That…my son…is the destiny I dreamed for you.”

He told d’Artagnan to wait as he went back into the house, up to his room and the armoire. When he returned, his son took a staggered step back when he saw what was in his father’s hands.

“On every birthday for the last ten years, I have withheld this from you…because I couldn’t bear to see such fine steel bloodied by a foolish boy playing at being a man. Today, though it’s not your birthday…and it started out a less than desirable day to prove me wrong…I see now, you are ready.”

The black scabbard past between them in reverence. In the dusk’s violet light, the rapier’s gilded hand guard made d’Artagnan pulse skip a beat. Never had he seen a more beautiful sword.

“A-Are you sure?”

Alexandre smiled, “A sword wields no strength unless that hand that holds it has courage. I think you passed that test. Go on, try it.”

d’Artganan was a giddy little boy of eight again, fumbling to drop the old scabbard and blade from his frog for this work of art that was now his. Drawing it free like a breath of shivering air from the scabbard, the length shining high enough to eat off of, its edge and tip deadly sharp. It pierced the air when thrust with a lyrical whistle, a true sign of the craftsmanship. The balance was achingly perfect. This was the talisman he was waiting for…to know he wasn’t failing in his path to the future. This blade was his promise he wasn’t. With this blade on his hip, he stood a little taller, a litter prouder, and looked to his father with his heart in his throat. “I can’t---.”

“Oh! Speechless! Well. If I had known it would have that effect, I would have given it over ages ago!”

They shared a laugh at that, a more nervous affect to the young man’s, because now he had to live up to this blade’s brilliance, to his father’s faith in him.

Bestrand could do his worse now.

* * *

 

**_Six Months Later_ **

**_February 1630..._ **

The year 1630 roared in like a lion. Miserable and wet, with storm after storm deluging the countryside, wiping out precious fields and flooding roads to muddy impasses. Bestrand’s ‘worse’ never materialized. After his embarrassment at the d’Artagnan stead, his luck continued downhill as more and more previous victims took stock in what Alexandre and his son did in standing up to them. His New Year arrived to find him on his way to trial for highway robbery, his banditry ways catching up as Alexandre foreswore. The lands and goods he stole or blackmailed into possession were slowly returned, and as such, the Crown found more to tax.

Out of all the positives from Bestrand’s downfall, the increase in tax levies were a resounding negative and just as suffocating, especially with this harsh winter making spring look particularly bleak.  For their bravery and gumption against one bully, the large landowners of Gascony gathered to democratically appoint the d’Artagnan family be the ones who journeyed to Paris to petition the King for relief.

“I packed you two enough vittles to get you through tomorrow morning at least. If you don’t eat like the pigs I know you are, that is…” Geneviève pulled their saddle bags tight to burst under their bounty. “And don’t want you two worrying about me, so I’ve asked the Labonè boys to come over and help…for some of my spiced meatpies, that is.”

Alexandre beamed, hugging her fiercely, “What would we do without you, Gene.”

 She hid her blushing glee at the attention under a terse tut and a swat on the shoulder once she wiggled out of the embrace a second too late to be truly miffed about it. “Now, now, it’s not like you’re going for good. d’Artagnan! d’Artagnan!”

“Here, I’m here…” Long legs even longer than in the summer carried him hurriedly out of the cold rain. “Pouring out…we better get going…What, Gene?” He addressed her finally, her hackles at his inattention getting in a bunch faster than any female he knew.

“Did you remember to chop the wood and bring in fresh hay bales for me to the main barn?”

“Yes, yes. Thousandth time, yes.”

“And the cows?”

“Milked and fed. I swear, you don’t trust me…”

“You’re right.” She poked dryly, “Not as far as I could throw you—which is pretty far, mind you.” She sniffed, “You stick, you.””

The banter, as tedious as it was to watch Geneviève still try to undermine the adult his son had become to the boy he once was, would be something Alexandre would miss…and harken back to…on the long ride ahead. It would make what he was going to offer his son while they rode more palatable: the opportunity to stay on in Paris, if d’Artagnan wanted, to discover if his destiny lay there or in Gascony. In his right breast pocket was a letter of introduction to an old friend who owned a blacksmith shop, and who happened to be looking to train an apprentice. His son’s skill with the blade and knowing what made them such formidable weapons would do him well. It just took six months to get his heart to believe what his mind already knew: d’Artagnan did have to leave them, but he would do so of his own accord. Be his own man in that decision too, the most important decision of his life.

“All right, you two. Say your goodbyes.”

Just as quick to chastise him, Geneviève was clutching the much taller d’Artagnan to her in a death grip, “You take care of yourself…and your father. Make sure he wears his warmest cloak, and if he gets tired…don’t tease, just heed, to the nearest inn.”

d’Artagnan fidgeted, “Don’t worry, I will. To all of that. …Uhm, can you let go now?”

He exasperated sigh was golden, as was the flush in her cheeks as she shooed them by handing off their bags, “And don’t ride too late!”

Tossing on their cloaks and hoods, Alexandre gently reminded to take his warmest one or else, they were on their way to Paris, soaked to the bone ten minutes in.

At d’Artagnan’s side, as faithful and trusted as his father or Geneviève ever could be, sat his beloved rapier. He’d have it taken from him, dropped in the mud, come nightfall. With it, Alexandre’s life.

* * *

 

**_An Inn Outside Paris…_ **

They didn’t have to kill him.

But they did…and let him fall in some shallow pit, his heart full of musket ball.

 “Father? Father!” d’Artagnan ran as he never ran before, pumping colt’s legs through the slop to slide in an ungraceful heap on top of a dying man. His beloved rapier tossed not far from the body, unwanted. Unwanted, that piece of art he lived and breathed by? What good it did him when he needed it the most. What good was he…the hero of Gascony…blindsided by bandits and stripped like a little boy of his tin toy. _Bestrand’s worse come to pass._

They were chosen for this journey because of his bravery, his fortitude in the face of adversity and malice.

Watching your father die didn’t make the irony of the situation any less obvious.

This was his destiny? He screamed at its arrival, as his father spoke a final time. Not his name, not Genevieve’s name, not even a promise of peace…but the name of his murderer. A scion of French society. One of the true heroes. A Musketeer. Named Athos.

This was his destiny?

He rose from his father’s side to retrieve his blade, sobbing, trying to wipe it clean. The rain helped, just as it helped to hide his tears. Streaks of azure glistened under the wash and polish, especially the royal fleur de les near the pommel. It poured out its potent meaning to him in a rage so indiscriminate, so tremendous in its strength, his knees buckled under it, and he had to stab his blade into the sludge anyway to keep from falling forward.

This was his destiny? Revenge on a musketeer?

He blindly reached out to rearrange his father’s cloak over the body, for dignity’s sake.

This was his destiny. To avenge. Because his father was his hero, and heroes don’t die in the mud forgotten.

The innkeeper came out, bloodied by the rogue musketeers’ assault, to inform him the undertaker was on his way. Several coins traded hands, the real cost too steep to pay but d’Artagnan would die trying.

This is why his father pushed, made his train every day, become intimately aware of his weapon and his skill; why d’Artagnan fought for those who couldn’t fight for themselves. Why he stood up to corruption and immorality where he found it in Gascony. This moment, right here, before God and before his father’s soul, was the beginning of his destiny. The Musketeers. And a murderer named Athos. In Paris.

He ripped his rapier free of its anchoring, the cool song of steel never so clear before. That choice Alexandre wanted to give him, Gascony or Paris, it was never his to make. So he orientated himself on the road towards that great city. His sword sheathed and replaced in its frog. His hood settled in place. That firebrand ambition at last finding meaning.

When he was eight, his father told him he was his future.

When he was eighteen, his father made him see the worth of that legacy.

Six months later, that worth was played out, and d’Artagnan remade a man without a future.

_May my hand have its courage to wield the blade of my destiny you thought I should have, always with dignity and honor. I will rise above this anger to still become the man you wanted me to be. This, I swear, mon peré._

_How I wish, now, I could just be a farmer’s son._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


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